


I.O.U.

by InsideMyBrain



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: (i didn't intend for it to be this angsty whoops), ASOUE Fic4Fic 2017, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Archival Libraries, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassination Plot(s), Banter, Blood, Death Threats, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Gangs, Gangsters, Graphic Descriptions of Expensive Dresses, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Kinda, Making Up, Mild Blood, Party, Partying, Plot Twists, Politics, Research, Swearing, Trials, Trust Issues, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Violence, although they're easily guessable, basically I couldnt find a way to make this about vfd, bc its convenient for the author, first time saying I love you, of a sort, so there's a bunch of ocs but theyre not important so you don't have to care about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14058564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsideMyBrain/pseuds/InsideMyBrain
Summary: Debt is out.Unfortunately for Esmé Squalor, she owes someone something. Determined to turn this into a good thing, she spins it into a scheme and invites Georgina along for the ride. But they hit a snag, and get taken on an unexpected and possibly deadly detour.





	1. part i: the kill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bea_bickerknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_bickerknife/gifts).



> DISCLAIMER: I have not watched the ersatz elevator episodes yet, so if my Esmé seems very fucking different from Lucy Punch's Esmé, that's why. 
> 
> So I meant to post this before season 2 came out, bc I thought ppl would be all hyped up for that and it'd be best to not be a distraction, if that makes sense? But I was really struggling to finish it on time, so it's a couple days late. I hope you guys enjoy anyway! Participating in fic4fic 2017 was a blast, I hope we do it again this year.

_This is all Esmé's fault,_ Georgina grouses to herself. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, trying to see more of her surroundings. It doesn't help, of course, that her hands are tied together behind the stiff mahogany back of the chair. She can feel Esmé's hands on hers, their fingertips joined in a Vulcan kiss as they sit back to back, trapped together.

It's entirely Esmé's fault that they're in this predicament. She was the one to suggest this scheme, and for what? The thrill of murder? Thinking back on it, there were some insinuations of theft in Esmé's proposal, but no clear goal — other than killing the man, that is. Georgina's a damn fool for agreeing to this; it seems she's learned nothing from Olaf's many wildly implausible schemes.

But this is Esmé — brilliant, beautiful Esmé — who Georgina would follow to the ends of the earth at the drop of an expensive hat. Georgina can't be blamed for trusting someone usually so skilled at these schemes.

So Georgina decides she's entirely blameless in the matter, and stops shifting in the chair. There isn't much to see in this room anyway, just some grey concrete walls and a door opposite her. Instead, she busies herself with spinning theories on what's going on here. She's just adding the finishing touches to a particularly complicated theory when the door opens.

* * *

  **One week earlier**

_God, I hate Perrier,_ Esmé thought, sipping the bitter, bubbly beverage. She almost never had complaints about the latest in beverage (even parsley soda was strangely delicious once she got used to it), but this drink was the exception. Esmé tried not to shudder as she took another sip, fervently hoping no one in the rooftop restaurant was watching her shoulders too closely. She put her glass down, smacking her lipsticked lips pointedly, and checked her watch. She was early, but she didn't mind waiting.

Esmé was meeting a potential client at the City's innest restaurant for brunch. Everything about the meeting had to be perfect, and perfectly in. He was the Prince of a small European country, very fashion-conscious and astronomically wealthy. If Esmé could land his account, it would be huge — it might even put her up to the City's fifth most important financial advisor.

It would certainly shake things up a bit. After Jerome's unfortunate demise in the fire at the Hotel Denouement, Esmé had been flourishing. She had the apartment and most of Jerome's estate, so she was in want of nothing. All sorts of exciting things happened after the fire: delicious rumours and scandalous exposés, and Esmé came out of the entire thing smelling like a rose. But things began to slow down again, and soon Esmé hit a slump. She was bored and frustrated, and when she was alone she wanted to scream for no reason. She needed something to drive her, and she'd decided this account was it.

Esmé leaned forward to adjust a napkin. Once satisfied it was perfectly aligned with the plate, she checked her watch again. Not long now.

Then, she heard a clearing of the throat. She glanced up excitedly, but it wasn't who she was waiting for. Instead, it was an older man in a grey suit, shoulders as sharp as his steely gaze. He carried a brown briefcase and an air of smugness. He looked down on Esmé and said, “remember me?”

“Of course,” Esmé replied, leaning back in her chair. “Fergus Green, the man with all the connections. Is Professor Plum with you?”

“Unlike you, Mrs. Squalor, I don't live up to my last name.” He sat in the seat opposite Esmé and placed his briefcase on the floor.

“Whatever you want, make it quick,” Esmé told him. “I'm meeting a very important client for brunch.”

Fergus waved his hand dismissively. “Prince (name) will take a little while to get here, what with his taxi driver taking him to the wrong place.”

Esmé folded her arms across her chest. “Well? What do you want, then?”

“I think you'll remember the little leg-up I gave you when you first started out in the world of finance,” he began.

“I do recall something to that effect.”

“I hope you haven't forgotten that you still owe me a favour in return.”

“You know, I thought you'd kick the bucket before you got to cash it in.”

Fergus laughed. “I'm alive and well, and I have a little task I need done.”

“Which is?”

Fergus set his briefcase on his lap and snapped it open. He pulled out a file and handed it to Esmé. “I want you to kill Grant Munro and make it look like John Hebron did it.”

Esmé raised her eyebrows. In the folder were some pictures of the men and two short paragraphs describing each of them. She flipped it shut and looked at Fergus.

Fergus held up a hand. “Before you say anything, you may ask me three — and only three — questions.”

“What makes you think I'll do it?” Esmé asked immediately.

“I see marrying into old money didn't give you any integrity.” He sighed. “Luckily, I prepared for this. Your friends with the matching tattoos have been very willing to talk.” He smiled intimidatingly. “I don't think the finance world is ready to know who you really are.”

“Why not just hire an actual, trained assassin?” Esmé asked, confused.

“Too conspicuous,” Fergus said. “I'm running for Finance District representative and all my expenses are being tracked. You, I don't have to pay.” He watched Esmé bite her lip. “You have one question left.”

Esmé thought for a moment. “Are there any rules or requirements I should know about?” she asked, and Fergus grinned.

“I have no preference for the manner in which he is killed, but the more brutal the better,” he replied. “You may enlist one other person to help you, but only one. You _must_ make sure you leave evidence that clearly ties John Hebron to the murder.” Fergus closed his briefcase and stood. “Oh, and you should have it done  in two weeks. If not, well, nothing good will come of that.” He adjusted a cufflink before speaking again. “Call me when you've done it. Have a good brunch, Mrs. Squalor.” Esmé watched him walk away, whistling as he went.

“Asshole,” she muttered under her breath, and set about rearranging the napkins he'd knocked out of place.

* * *

 “Alright, please look past me to the dot on the upper right corner of the wall,” Georgina told her patient. “Do you see it? Good.” She clicked on a small flashlight and began to inspect the patient's eye. However, she wasn't even halfway done when she heard the phone ring from her office.

She clicked off the flashlight and sighed. “I have to take this, sorry.”

Her patient shrugged. “It's no problem,” she said.

Georgina stood and exited the room, following the irritating trilling of the phone. Entering her office, which was across the hall, she picked up the phone. “Dr. Orwell's office, how can I help you?”

“I think I have an appointment,” breathed a familiar voice on the other end.

“Do you now,” Georgina said, a smile creeping onto her face.

“It's you and me at my apartment tonight planning a scheme,” Esmé said.

“I'm intrigued,” said Georgina. “What kind, exactly?”

“You'll find out tonight,” Esmé said, and Georgina's interest was piqued even more.

“I'll be there for six,” Georgina told her.

“Perfect, darling. I'll see you then.”

“Oh, Esmé?” said Georgina.

“Yes, Georgie?”

“Next time, call me on my lunch break.” Georgina tried to sound stern, but the smile was coming through in her voice.

“Will do, darling.” Esmé was smiling too. “’Bye, now.”

“’Bye.”

Georgina hung up and walked back into the examination room. Her patient waited with an expression of interest.

“Esmé?” Georgina's patient asked curiously. “Not Esmé Squalor, the City's sixth most important financial advisor?”

“The one and only,” Georgina replied.

“Are you friends with her?”

A trace of a smirk played around the edges of Georgina's lips. “You could say that.” She sat down and picked up the flashlight again.

“How did you–”

“Ms. Julienne,” Georgina interrupted, clicking the flashlight on, “you're here for an eye exam, not information about my personal life.”

“Could be both,” Geraldine muttered, but ceased inquiring about Esmé.

“Look at the dot again please... Thank you,” said Georgina, and resumed her examination.

* * *

The doorbell rang at precisely six o'clock.

That was one of the many things she loved about the optometrist, Esmé reflected as she raced towards the door, stumbling in her heels. Her punctuality, though stemming from a sense of comfort in schedules rather than the fact that it was in, made meeting her so easy. Esmé, too, liked regular structure, but unlike Georgina, she didn't mind shifting her schedule around if something came up.

Esmé reached the front door of her penthouse and opened the door, smiling at Georgina. “Right on time as always, darling,” Esmé greeted, holding the door open for Georgina to step inside.

“I'm eager to hear about this scheme you have in mind,” Georgina replied, looking around at the front entrance. “Wasn't this all flower themed yesterday?”

“Florals are out now,” Esmé said airily. “The latest décor wave is outer space. Isn't it simply divine?” She gestured at the walls, which were sporting new star-patterned wallpaper and a collection of framed, blurry photographs of what could be called UFOs. Esmé herself matched her surroundings, dressed in a bright silver cocktail dress with a crescent moon clasp.

“Divine indeed,” said Georgina, not looking at the walls at all.

Esmé pulled her in for a kiss, and she felt Georgina melt into her. Esmé would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy making Georgina fall apart with just a kiss.

When they finally broke apart, Esmé led Georgina down the halls to the second-largest sitting room. In drinks and snacks were waiting for them, and as she sat down, Esmé handed Georgina a glass of something pale yellow and fizzy.

“Cheers, Georgie,” Esmé said, and they clinked glasses.

“So,” Georgina said, once she'd taken a sip of the peppery drink, “I'm all ears.”

Esmé leaned forward and picked up a folder off the table. Not the same folder Fergus had given her — it was brown, a colour that'd been out for some time, and Georgina knew it. If she saw Esmé with a brown folder, she'd know something was up. This folder was a shiny black. Esmé flipped it open and pulled a photograph out of it.

“Grant Munro,” she announced, handing the picture to Georgina. “Independantly wealthy, lover of lavish parties. He's throwing one this Saturday night at his mansion.”

Georgina looked up from the photograph. “And?” she asked, though her eyes looked like she already knew the answer.

“And,” said Esmé, standing in one sweeping motion, “we infiltrate as guests.” The former actress drew herself up to her full height and spoke in a booming voice. “His mansion is beautiful, darling, and it has so many exquisite, _expensive_ things in it. We find him, lure him away from the party, to some remote corner of the place,” here she paused for dramatic effect, “and kill him.” She imagined the scene for a moment, filled with glamour and gratuitous violence. And at her side would be Georgina, gorgeous, cunning, lethal Georgina, the woman she–

“What's the security like?” Georgina's voice cut through her thoughts, ending her daydream abruptly.

“Loose,” said Esmé, sitting again. She smoothed the front of her dress. “He only sends invites to a select handful of friends, while the rest of the guests simply show up. He turns away many people though, for seemingly trivial reasons. I think to have the best chance of joining the party by legal means, we'll have to be as in and stylish as possible.”

“Please don't put me in anything ridiculous,” Georgina groaned. “Last month, after that charity gala, I was picking glitter out of my hair for weeks.”

“Don't worry, dark colours are in now,” Esmé reassured her. She scooted closer to Georgina on the sofa. “I saw this lovely dark blue evening gown in the garment district yesterday,” she said in a breathy voice, “which you would look _stunning_ in.” She placed her hands on Georgina's hips and trailed them up her figure. “With something like a diamond choker–” she traced her fingers along the base of Georgina's neck, feeling her pulse quicken– “matching earrings–” her hands drifted to Georgina's jaw, and she leaned closer– “and dark red lipstick,” she whispered, then kissed her.

“I'm in,” Georgina murmured.

Esmé shifted onto her lap and began kissing along her jaw and down to her neck. “Thank you, darling,” she said, punctuating each word with a kiss. “I'll take care of all the preparation, don't even worry about it.” She placed hot, open-mouthed kisses along Georgina's collarbone, fiddling with the top button of her blouse. “Just thinking about you in that dress with blood on your hands is getting me _excited_.”

Georgina smirked, her fingers finding the zip of Esmé's dress at the back of her neck. “I thought it would,” she said, unzipping the dress.

_I'll go to John Hebron's house tomorrow to gather the evidence I need,_ thought Esmé as her dress slipped off her body. It pooled on the shiny hardwood floor, glowing like a splash of moonlight in the bright room.

* * *

 Grant Munro's house was lit up like a Christmas tree by the time Esmé and Georgina arrived there on Saturday. It seemed to Georgina almost as if it was on fire, light leaping in every window and heat spilling from the open door. _A premonition?_ she thought, smirking to herself. The door of Esmé's car was opened by her driver, and Georgina got out to take a better look at the house.

Her heels clicked on the pavement as she stepped out — they were short ones, thankfully, which Esmé had only agreed to let her wear because her dress covered them.

The dress in question was indeed a deep blue, so long that it brushed the cleanly-swept sidewalk. The skirt was gored, and made of a heavy fabric so that it draped attractively. The bodice was black, and gems glinted along the off-shoulder sweetheart neckline. A fur stole, black with the subtlest hint of blue, lay across her shoulders, and she drew it tighter around her.

Esmé joined her on the pavement, slipping an arm through Georgina's. She was wearing a slinky dark red dress with a plunging neckline and tiers of silky fabric that swished with every motion. Attatched to the back of the dress was something of a train, though it would be more accurate to describe it as a cape. It was made of a stiff, striking black fabric with a trim that matched the red of the dress. Inside the trim was wire which allowed the train to be shaped in a billowing, twisting fashion, like there was a perpetual wind blowing it. Georgina thought it strange and impractical, but Esmé had insisted it was very in.

“Have what we need?” Esmé murmured, looking up at the glowing mansion. Georgina didn't need to look into her eyes to know they were glowing, too.

“All in here,” she murmured, indicating her black clutch purse. It was small, but they'd managed to fit in a revolver and a dagger that secreted poison into the victim when used. Georgina would have liked to bring her sword, but it would have been cumbersome to carry.

Esmé kissed her briefly. “Let's go.”

They made their way up to the door of the mansion, through the front yard. Guests nodded at them as they passed, raising their glasses and giggling. Music spilled from the open door, enveloping Esmé and Georgina as they stepped inside.

Inside, Georgina's senses were bombarded with sounds, scents, lights, and colours. A crowd of people danced in the foyer, bright light reflecting off the luxurious fabrics of their clothes and sending spots all around the room. From a speaker in the corner came the music, a man rapping over a jazzy piano tune. People were coming up to them, offering them drinks and food. Laughter and chatter drowned out the name of a drink as a servant offered it to Georgina. The place was heavily perfumed, but underneath the almost-acidic flowery scent was something rank, like sweat and vomit. Georgina politely declined the drink, but Esmé took two and placed one in her hand, so she took a sip anyway. She was unsurprised to find it was the same drink Esmé had offered her the other day.

Esmé motioned to the hallway and began to make her way through the foyer. Georgina followed wordlessly.

Once in the hall, the overwhelmingness of the party dimmed. Esmé leaned in so Georgina could hear her speak.

“The ballroom is the heart of these parties,” she said. “Mr. Munro is usually found there.”

“Have you attended one of these before?” Georgina asked as they passed a man drunkenly attempting magic tricks, much to the amusement of a girl with wine stains on her dress.

“No,” Esmé said, sidestepping another servant offering drinks, “I just did my research.”

Georgina raised an eyebrow. “You? Research?”

Esmé chortled. “It's only acceptable if it's for a profitable cause.” She shifted her strangely heavy purse on her shoulder.

They'd reached a pair of double doors, standing wide open and leading into what was unmistakably the ballroom. It was a wide, circular room with a high ceiling from which three ornate, blazing chandeliers hung. The floor was polished sprung wood, but Georgina could barely see it beneath the feet of exhilarated dancers. A section of the room had numerous small, round tables, and almost all of them were surrounded by people eating their fill, taking advantage of Mr. Munro's hospitality. Directly opposite the door was a stage, and a live band was playing the music heard via speakers throughout the house. And there — speaking with another man near the band, was Grant Munro. Esmé noticed him at the same time, and Georgina saw her shoulders square.

“What's the plan?” Georgina murmured.

“Follow my lead,” said Esmé, and walked toward Mr. Munro. Georgina followed.

As they approached, the man with Mr. Munro turned away to speak with a woman. Esmé jumped at the opening and called, “Mr. Munro?”

He turned, and offered them a polite, if cold smile.

“Vera Frogg-Drifter,” she introduced herself, and held out a hand for him to shake. He took it. “This is my friend, Linda Huxley.”

Georgina nodded, studying his face. There was something shrewd about him, and she wondered briefly if they'd picked the right person to kill.

“How do you do, ladies,” he said, smiling again, though this time it seemed genuine.

“This party is magnificent,” Esmé began. “This is my first time at one of your legendary parties, and I must say they live up to their reputation.”

Mr. Munro chuckled. “My guests often find that after coming to one, they're compelled to keep coming back.”

“I can certainly see why.”

As Esmé continued chatting with their host, Georgina found herself zoning out. A pang of something like jealousy swept through her as she watched Esmé flirt with him. She'd known, of course, that this would be the plan, and that he was _certainly_ not Esmé's type, but something still twisted her stomach when she saw Esmé laugh pointedly.

“Isn't that right, darling?” Esmé said, and Georgina refocused on what was going on around her.

“Of course,” said Georgina, and she looked at Mr. Munro. He'd lost that wary look from before; instead, a lecherous smirk spread across his face.

Esmé looped an arm through each of theirs, and said, “lead the way, Mr. Munro.”

“Right this way, ladies,” he said, and turned to lead them through a side door. As they turned, Georgina thought she saw the man from earlier watching them suspiciously, but returned her attention to the host as he spoke to her.

“So, you like to watch?” Mr. Munro asked.

Georgina shouldn't have been surprised. In her mind she saw VFD eyes, the tattoos and hidden cameras and her own optometry equipment, and gulped. “Love to,” was all she said. Glancing at him, she saw he had an eyebrow raised, and tacked on, “She's good, you know. She'll have you forgetting your own name.”

His eyes seemed to bore into hers. “I don't doubt it.”

They reached a secluded room much too slowly for Georgina's liking. Once Mr. Munro shut the door behind them, any urgency in Esmé seemed to dissipate.

“Lovely place you have, truly,” she said, taking a handkerchief out of her purse. Holding it gingerly, she wiped it on a small side table deliberately. “No dust. Use this room often?”

“Quite,” Mr. Munro said, impatient. He shrugged his suit jacket off.

Georgina settled herself in an armchair, one of two facing a desk; they seemed to be in Mr. Munro's private office. She placed one hand on her purse, watching Esmé with their host. Esmé quirked her lips at Georgina, as if to say, _be patient, darling._

Esmé dropped her purse to the floor with a thump, and walked purposely to Mr. Munro. She took him by the tie and pushed him over to the desk, heels clicking assertively. When he pulled her around to press her against the desk and kiss her, Georgina felt a spark of harsh anger.

In truth, Georgina didn't really like to watch. When she'd done this sort of thing with past partners, she became much too jealous to enjoy herself. Now was no different, watching Esmé with this stranger. He shouldn't have been there — he didn't _belong_ there. They were in his home, at his party, yet in this scene he was totally out of place, because it should have been Georgina in his place.

Another thing Georgina didn't usually like was killing in cold blood. A gunshot, fired coolly and meticulously, was nowhere near as satisfying as a hard blow with a cane or a smooth slice with a sword. The crack of bones and the tear of flesh was a thing that had to be experienced close-up to appreciate one's handiwork. The emotions that went into an act of violence, too, were almost as important as the act itself. A murder borne of a blind rage was quite different from that of one borne from grief-filled vengeance. The turbulence of anger, jealousy, grief or love were what gave the act its unique flavour — strangulation was almost always a crime of passion, for example. Georgina felt that emotions were best vented physically, although whether that was making good use of a pair of brass knuckles or a longsword depended on the emotion at hand. Guns, to her, always felt too detached, something to use when one didn't want to get their hands dirty.

There was something different this time, however. No less personal, no less emotional, but the gun was perfect for the job. As she drew it from her purse, her movements fluid and slow like she was underwater, the room kind of narrowed to where Esmé and _him_ were.

It was almost too easy.

Georgina fired the gun, and his body went slack. Blood seeped from the wound in his back, near enough to his heart that Georgina knew he'd bleed out quickly. Esmé looked at her, all laughing eyes and saliva-slick lips, and Georgina felt like she'd been made whole again.

* * *

 “Georgie?” Esmé peered at the other woman questioningly. Her eyes were glazed over, and though she'd lowered the gun, she still maintained an incredibly tight grip on it.

Georgina's eyelids fluttered, and she came back like a ghost refilling a mortal body. She looked at the wound in Mr. Munro's back as if she'd never seen it before.

“Are you alright?” Esmé asked. She'd seen Georgina harm before, she'd seen her kill and maim, but this had never happened before. She wondered what was different this time.

Georgina nodded. “I'm wonderful,” she said, then her face split into a grin.

Esmé smiled, then shifted Mr. Munro off her. He was still alive, but barely. He rolled to the floor with a groan and a string of garbled curses.

Esmé stood, zipped up her dress, and rearranged the train at the back. “What shall we do with him?” She asked, nudging his bare chest with her shoe. Noticing blood beginning to creep towards her, she snatched her foot away.

“Put him in the chair,” suggested Georgina, “and turn it away from the door.”

Esmé laughed. “Brilliant. Help me move him.”

Together they picked him up and hauled him over to the chair behind the desk. “Careful with your hands,” Esmé commented, noting Georgina's hands were near the fabric of Mr. Munro's pants. They couldn't leave any fingerprints.

Georgina smirked. “I'm always careful with my hands.”

“Don't I know it.”

Once he was seated in the chair, they stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“Can you just pop outside and check if the coast is clear?” Esmé asked casually, picking up her purse.

“Oh, sure,” said Georgina. Esmé waited until the door had closed behind her to open her purse.

_Quickly, quickly,_ Esmé thought, pulling out a small plastic bag. Inside it was a single cigarette butt, which she removed from the bag with a pair of tweezers. She dropped it on the floor, next to the pool of blood. The cigarette had been stubbed out in an ashtray, which left a different impression than a shoe would. She reached into her purse again, this time pulling out a man's shoe, stuffed and folded to fit inside — the leather would be permanently creased. She'd stolen it from John Hebron's house a few days earlier. Esmé dipped the bottom of the shoe carefully in the blood and blotted off any extra with a handkerchief, then stamped on the cigarette with it. It made a nice, clear print of the shoe's pattern, and Esmé hummed in satisfaction. She stuffed everything back into her purse, then retrieved a cigarette for herself. She lit it, took a puff, and paused. “Everything okay?”

No answer came. Frowning, Esmé walked to the door and pulled it open.

She dropped her cigarette.

Sometimes, when Esmé was overtaken by extreme emotions, she felt almost otherworldly. She would feel grounded yet floating, parts of her body expanding and retracting and moving of their own accord, like the space she occupied was being distorted. Her mind would be wiped blank, her consciousness focused entirely on what she was feeling. She wouldn't come down from it for several minutes, and when she did she would be dizzy, and buzzing yellow circles would pop in her vision. It was disorienting, and frankly worrisome, but as Esmé learned to control her emotions, the sensations faded into brief out-of-body experiences. Now though, Esmé felt a flutter in her stomach at the sight that greeted her, and the ripple in time and space spread through her body, stronger than she'd felt in years. Her breath heaving and her body warping like she was made of smoke, her mind was wiped of everything except a single thought:

_He set me up._

Esmé's scream was muffled by a chloroform-soaked rag and the hiss of her cigarette blooming into a fire on the carpet. 


	2. part ii: escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to in a cold, unfamiliar room, Georgina has lots of questions. But Esme gets all the answers.

_This is all Esmé's fault,_ Georgina grouses to herself. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, trying to see more of her surroundings. It doesn't help, of course, that her hands are tied together behind the stiff mahogany back of the chair. She can feel Esmé's hands on hers, their fingertips joined in a Vulcan kiss as they sit back to back, trapped together.

It's entirely Esmé's fault that they're in this predicament. She was the one to suggest this scheme, and for what? The thrill of murder? Thinking back on it, there were some insinuations of theft in Esmé's proposal, but no clear goal — other than killing the man, that is. Georgina's a damn fool for agreeing to this; it seems she's learned nothing from Olaf's many wildly implausible schemes.

But this is Esmé — brilliant, beautiful Esmé — who Georgina would follow to the ends of the earth at the drop of an expensive hat. Georgina can't be blamed for trusting someone usually so skilled at these schemes.

So Georgina decides she's entirely blameless in the matter, and stops shifting in the chair. There isn't much to see in this room anyway, just some grey concrete walls and a door opposite her. Instead, she busies herself with spinning theories on what's going on here. She's just adding the finishing touches to a particularly complicated theory when the door opens.

In walk two men whose appearances are so juxtaposing it almost makes Georgina laugh. The first one is built — bulging arms, thick middle, pounding footsteps in chunky combat boots and veins popping out of his huge hands. He's quite short, and Georgina's sure that if Esmé were standings she would tower over him. His face as he surveys them is impassive. The other makes Georgina think of a weasel in an ill-fitting suit. Everything about him is long and thin: his body type, face shape, nose, and mouth. Perched on the end of his nose is a pair of glasses, which he uses to look down on her in contempt. She smiles back up at him, amused by the fact the lenses are just plain glass.

“So,” Weasel says, “you're the bitches that tried to kill Grant.”

“Tried?” Georgina blurts.

“He's in the hospital now, but he'll live.”

“Fuck,” comes Esmé's voice from behind her.

“Tell me, why'd you do it?” he continues, starting to pace around them. The other man crosses his arms and stands by the door. As if they could leave.

“A question for a question,” Esmé says, using her regular method of avoiding a question when she doesn't have the answer. “Who the hell are you?”

He walks over to her and pulls up his sleeve, evidently showing her a tattoo. Georgina cranes her neck around, but doesn't manage to get a glimpse of it. “Does this mean anything to you?”

Esmé answers hesitantly. “Yes... Yes, I think it does.” She sounds a little afraid, which sets Georgina on edge.

He continues meandering around the small room, re-entering Georgina's field of vision. He studies her for a moment, and she shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I'll tell you what I think,” he says. “I think you two grossly underestimated the danger you were in when you entered that room with Grant. I–” he pauses, interrupted by an incessant beeping. He pulls a small device — a pager, Georgina realizes — out of his belt and scowls at it. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says, then beckons to the other man. They leave the room, the door clicking shut loudly behind them.

Georgina waits until their footsteps fade, then hisses, “Esmé, what is going on?”

“Munro was part of a fucking mafia.”

Georgina pauses, trying to digest that information. “How the _fuck_ did you miss that?” she whispers furiously.

“I don't know,” Esmé mumbles. “Shit...”

Georgina wants to run a hand through her hair in frustration. She moves her hand to do so, only to be stopped by the rope tying her wrists together.

“I've heard of them before,” Esmé says. “My cocktail friends’ friends’ acquaintances know people who know them. I didn't know he was one of them, though.”

They're both silent. Disbelief, anger, and panic course through Georgina.

“We'll be fine,” Esmé says, with forced confidence, “they don't hurt women.”

“That's bullshit and you know it,” snaps Georgina. She senses Esmé tense up defensively.

A few minutes pass in tense silence, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing and the occasional shifting in their chairs. Georgina's head snaps up when she hears footsteps; evidently their captors are coming down the hall to their cell. A moment later the door opens, and the weasel-like man enters.

“Which one of you is Esmé Squalor?” he asks.

“Me,” says Esmé, and it's clear from her voice that while she's nervous, she's also annoyed he doesn't know who she is.

Weasel nods at the shorter man, who enters and walks up to Esmé. Georgina feels him slice Esmé's bonds with a pocket knife, then the slightly reassuring weight of Esmé's fingers on hers is gone.

“Come with us,” says Weasel, and she stands unsteadily.

_Divide and conquer,_ Georgina thinks anxiously. She looks up at Esmé, seeing her for the first time since she came to in this room, and she knows she's thinking the same thing.

“Don't let them get you,” she whispers.

Esmé presses a brief kiss to her temple.

“I won't,” whispers Esmé before walking over to the doorway. Each of their captors take her by the arm, something that would look gentlemanly if they weren't prisoners. Esmé gives her another glance, one that seems to convey a million things at once, and then the door shuts loudly behind her.

* * *

Esmé's mind races as the men drag her along a dimly-lit corridor. _Maybe this was Fergus’ plan all along,_ she thinks worriedly as they turn a corner. _Have me publicly humiliated and my reputation ruined before I get brutally murdered._ The florescent lights above her flicker. _But if so, why this roundabout way? If he has connections to these guys, why didn't he just send them to ruin and then end my life?_ She frowns, then shoves her thoughts aside as they approach a steel door.

The shorter man knocks. A few moments pass, then a voice says “come in,” from inside.

The taller man pushes the door open to reveal a warm, comfortable living area. A man sits on a black leather sofa, sipping the latest in cocktail from a silver mug. In front of him on a teak coffeetable are a few books and a paperweight, but no paper. There are large floor to ceiling windows on the opposite wall, and they display a breathtaking view of the City at dusk. There are a few armchairs near the couch, and a television placed in one corner. A soccer game is on, but the sound is off.

“Esmé Squalor,” says the man, and Esmé looks back to him. He's tall, middle-aged, and fairly stout — though more from forgotten muscle mass than fat. He's wearing a suit with a jacket and vest, and shiny black shoes that match his hair. He stands, extending a hand for Esmé to shake, and she notes his thick fingers have many rings. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“It's nice to meet you too, Mr.…?”

“Call me Silas. Please, sit.”

Esmé perches on the end of the sofa cautiously as he settles back down. She glanced at the men who led her here, both standing by the door.

Silas nods at them, and they withdraw. He turns back to Esmé, who's feeling suddenly apprehensive about being alone with him.

He studies her for a moment, then speaks. “Your girlfriend — she's a bit old for you, isn't she?”

Esmé bristles. “I'll have you know I like her because of her age, not in spite of it.” She knows he's just trying to rattle her, but she can't help herself.

“I suppose she must have been pretty once,” he muses, “although I doubt you were even born then.”

Esmé feels her face go red, and fights to keep down her anger on Georgina's behalf. It's not the fact he's trying to rile her up, it's the fact he's picked up on such a specific and personal insecurity of Georgina's.

He smirks before continuing. “She's the clear quartz of women: quite common, fairly cheap, and, from the look of her, used by many.”

“How dare you,” Esmé spits, furious. She may not be the one with the power here, but she'll be damned if she lets him speak about Georgina like that. “Georgina is smart, beautiful, and incredibly capable, and you should show her some Goddamn respect.”

Silas chuckles. “I'll show her some respect when she proves she's worthy.”

Esmé tenses up. There's a certain sense of foreboding in his manner, as if he's about to put them through all sorts of ominous tests.

But then he leans back, something like an approving grin settling onto his face. He nods at her and says, “you, however, are a diamond.”

This change of attitude gives Esmé pause. “Thanks, I gu–”

“Inflated and overrated.”

Esmé huffs. “I've had enough of your specific, metaphorical, and oddly cutting insults. What do you want?”

Silas takes a long sip of his drink, then looks her directly in the eye. “I want you out of my fucking house.” Before Esmé can respond, he stands and begins to pace, talking all the while.

“Now, I can't simply let you go. You and your girlfriend tried to kill Grant, for God's sake. And my guys found some suspicious items in your purse: a man's shoe and an old cigarette? What the hell were you two trying to do, and why? Nothing was missing, so it wasn't for monetary reasons. Was it for the thrill, was that it? That's feasible. But– the cigarette and the shoe. That throws a wrench in all my theories.”

“Been reading some Sherlock Holmes lately?” Esmé quips.

“Why don't you tell me what you were trying to do,” says Silas. “It'll give you a much better chance of getting out of here alive. I'd prefer you to talk on your own, but we can make you talk if you prove to be uncooperative.”

Esmé bites her lip, trying to think. The truth does shift some of the blame off her. Maybe she can convince him Fergus Green is to blame for the whole thing.

“I'll talk,” she says.

Silas smiles. He sits down beside her and clasps his hands. “I'm listening.”

Esmé takes a breath and begins. “Around a week ago, I was approached by a local politician, a Mr. Fergus Green. Maybe you've heard of him, he's quite the big shot. I owed him a favour in return for his helping me start in finance, and he wanted to cash it in. He told me I had to kill Mr. Munro and frame someone else for it, a Mr. John Hebron.”

Silas raises his eyebrows at this. “Hebron, you say?”

“Yes,” says Esmé.

“Why?” Silas asks.

Esmé shrugs. “I don't know. He only let me ask him three questions. I don't think he would have told me if I'd asked, anyway.”

Silas nods. “Continue.”

“I wouldn't have done it, but he blackmailed me into it. He said I could enlist only one person to help me, so I asked Georgina. But I…” She looks down guiltily. “I kept it from her. She doesn't know I was asked to kill him, she doesn't know I was supposed to frame someone else. I just pretended like it was all my scheme, to kill him and maybe rob the house.”

“You two do this sort of thing on the regular?” Silas asks.

Esmé waves a hand nonchalantly. “You know how it is. Anyway, we did it, and everything went perfectly. Except, of course, for the fact he didn't die and that we were captured.”

Silas nods, tapping his fingers together pensively. He stares at her for a few silent moments before saying, “prove it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “How am I supposed to know if this is the truth? You need to prove it.”

“How?” Esmé asks, annoyed.

“I have a large archival library,” Silas says, “full of newspapers, letters, telegrams, and such. Documents that tell me what the whole City is up to. You and your girlfriend can use it for two days, to corroborate your story. If you manage to convince me, I'll let you go unharmed. If not, we'll kill you.”

Silas stands and beckons to Esmé. She follows him to the door, watching as he opens it to speak to the two men standing in the hallway.

“Take them to the library.”

* * *

Georgina eyes Esmé apprehensively as she and their captors re-enter the room. She doesn't look injured and her clothes are no more dishevelled than they were before, so Georgina begins to relax. She does look annoyed and sort of pained, as if she's about to do something she'd rather not. Georgina bites her tongue to keep from asking a thousand questions — she'd rather be alone with Esmé to speak one-on-one.

But instead of leaving, their captors cut her bonds and haul her to her feet. As soon as she finds her footing — she's still wearing heels, goddamnit — she wrenches herself out of Weasel's grip. She slides her hand into Esmé's and whispers in her ear, “what's going on?”

“I'll tell you in a minute,” Esmé murmurs back.

“Quit your chatting,” Weasel snaps.

“Come on,” says the other one, leading the way out of the room. Georgina and Esmé follow, with a scowling Weasel bringing up the rear.

They walk along dark, twisty corridors for quite some time before stopping in front of a door. It's labeled _Library_ ; Georgina raises her eyebrows at it.

The shorter man unlocks it and ushers everyone inside, shutting the door behind them. “Go crazy,” he says with a sweeping gesture. The room is filled with rows about rows of filing cabinets, labeled by date. Crates of papers yet to be filed are stacked on the floor, reaching halfway to the ceiling. The florescent lighting is harsh, and Georgina blinks in the sudden brightness.

Without a second of hesitation, Esmé grabs her arm and takes off into the maze of filing cabinets. Once she feels they're far enough from their captors, Georgina begins to speak in a low voice.

“What's going on? What happened when you left earlier? Why are we in an archival library?”

Esmé stops and turns to face her, choosing to answer the second of Georgina's questions. “They took me to speak to this man, Silas. I suppose he's the leader of all this. He wanted to know why we did it.”

“Esmé, what did you tell him?” Georgina asks, knowing the truth would get them both killed.

Esmé ignores the question, glancing down at her feet _still_ in stilettos. She kicks them off, then looks back at Georgina.

“First I have to tell you something, Georgie, darling.” She takes both of Georgina's hands in hers and looks into her eyes almost pleadingly.

Georgina begins to feel afraid. “Go on,” she says quietly.

Esmé takes a breath. “Killing Munro wasn't actually my scheme. I only agreed to do it because Fergus Green, one of my old business contacts, blackmailed me into it. And he said I had to frame another man for the murder, someone named John Hebron. So I planted evidence at the crime scene where you were out of the room.”

“While I was being kidnapped,” says Georgina angrily. The image assembles itself in her mind: Esmé methodically taking Hebron's items out of her purse, maybe leaving his handkerchief or spraying his cologne in the air, with Georgina slipping out of consciousness on the other side of the door.

“Yes,” whispers Esmé, which somehow makes her seem even more despicable. “It was a terrible, selfish, careless thing to do, and I feel awful about it, darling.”

“Don't call me that,” Georgina snaps, tugging her hands out of Esmé's. “You _lied_ to me!”

“Yes, I–”

“Why?”

Esmé falters. “Because I knew you wouldn't help me if I told you the truth, and I wanted you by my side,” she says softly, guiltily.

“ _Fuck_!” Georgina yells, the volume of her voice surprising even her. “You really think that?”

“I–”

“You should know by now I'll do anything with, for, and to you. Experience should have taught you that much!” Georgina continues, her rage growing with every passing second. “When were you going to tell me? Were you just going to fucking keep it from me forever?”

Esmé opens her mouth to reply, then closes it and drops her head.

Georgina feels angry tears sting her eyes. “What else have you lied to me about, what else have you kept from me? How many other times have you used me like a fucking pawn?”

“Never, never, I promise, I swear to God,” Esmé says quickly. She steps forward, dark eyes searching Georgina's. “I've never kept anything else from you.”

Georgina lets herself stare into Esmé's eyes for a moment, shining like inkwells, then squeezes her own shut and stumbles backwards. She feels a tear drop onto her chin. “No,” she says, opening her eyes. “How can I believe you?”

Esmé's face twists, puckering in horror as she realizes what she's done.

“Fuck,” Georgina whispers, trying to collect herself. “Do you have any idea how much I trust you?”

“Georgie–”

“Stop. Just don't. Every relationship I've had has been fucked up, knives at each other's throats and plotting behind each other's backs, and that shit left its mark on me. You have no Goddamn idea how hard it is for me to trust. But I trust– trust _ed_ you. Because you listened to me and laughed with me, you stole and set things on fire for me, you fucked me and told me I was gorgeous without even adding ‘for a woman your age’ on to the end of that sentence. And now you've destroyed it all in a week!” Georgina pauses, her chest heaving. Esmé reaches out a hand, and Georgina snaps, “don't _touch_ me!” Esmé snatches her hand back as if burnt.

“You should be glad I didn't tell you,” Esmé says coldly. “Your ignorance will save you. They'll kill me, not you.”

“Oh, _as if_ you kept it from me for my protection,” Georgina shoots back, voice dripping in bitterness and contempt. “Besides, what I know or knew or didn't doesn't mean jack shit in the end, because I was the one who pulled that fucking trigger, while you were practically begging him to give it to you right on the desk.”

“Oh please,” Esmé scoffs. “He was ugly as hell. You know seduction is my best distraction technique.”

“I can't stand you,” says Georgina, and Esmé looks truly shocked. Because Esmé's been lying to her like it's nothing, because she's young and selfish and careless, because, because, because…

Because the sting of betrayal will always remind her she's worthless.

Georgina wipes her eyes aggressively, then turns and stalks off into the maze of filing cabinets. She needs to be alone right now.

* * *

Esmé peers worriedly into the labrynth of filing cabinets. It's been a few hours since she and Georgina fought, and she wants to try talking to her again. Mostly because of the shame, regret, and guilt that have been consuming her over the past hours, but also because their captors have finally given them food.

So she stands on the periphery of the filing cabinets, her bare feet freezing on the concrete floor and her hands burning from the hot tray, and feels her stomach tie itself into a knot.

“Georgie– Georgina?” she calls, stopping herself from using the familiar nickname. It all feels too sad and serious to use a nickname she may never say again.

Esmé waits a moment, and when no response comes, sighs and starts walking. The steam from the food drifts in her face, and the savoury, spicy scent makes her mouth flood with saliva. She grits her teeth and keeps walking. “Georgina?” she calls again, looking around the corners at an intersection between cabinets. “Are you hungry, d–” she cuts herself off, tries again. “They brought us food.” She turns left, then starts as she glances down and Georgina's looking sullenly back at her from on top of a crate of papers.

“Georgina.”

“Esmé.”

There is a pause.

Esmé lifts the tray. “Would you like some dinner?”

“What is it?”

Esmé inspects it for the first time. “Some kind of meat and rice curry or stir-fry,” she says. She glances back at Georgina. “Not like you can ask for anything else.”

Georgina sighs. “True.”

Esmé walks closer, hesitates for just a moment, then perches beside Georgina on the crate. Placing the tray across their laps, she hands a fork to Georgina. Unintentionally, they begin to eat at the same time.

“Maybe it's poisoned,” Georgina mutters, though she continues to eat.

Esmé thinks of Silas’ anger, his frustration, his desire to know. “I somehow doubt that.”

There is a moment of awkward silence.

“Esmé, what _did_ they take us here for?” Georgina asks.

“Well, I told Silas what was going on, and his only response was, ‘prove it’. So we have to gather evidence and present it to him from these archives. And, uh,” she gulps, “if he doesn't find it satisfactory, he'll kill us.” She sneaks another sidelong glance at Georgina. She doesn't reply, so Esmé continues. “I– I just want to apologize,” she stammers, the words feeling foreign on her tongue, “for what I did. Lying and deceiving you and putting you in danger. It was stupid and foolhardy and selfish, and I have no excuse. And I want you to know this is my biggest regret, and that I've never lied to you about anything else. I've been honest with you from the very start about everything, except for this. You may not believe me, but it's true, d– Georgina.” She takes a deep breath and waits for Georgina's response.

When it comes, Esmé can hear the suppressed sadness, anger, and doubt in every syllable. “Prove it.”

“What?” asks Esmé immediately, but through her surprise she expects it. Georgina would have to be very naïve to accept her apology at face value, and they both know that's something Georgina could never be.

Georgina gestures around them. “We're in an archival library. You have everything at your disposal.” She lifts her chin. “Prove you've never lied to me.”

Esmé is on her feet in an instant. “What do you want to know?”

Georgina thinks for a moment, then says, “Two weeks ago when you canceled on me to meet with some representatives from the Kingdom of Království. Prove you were telling the truth.”

Esmé nods and walks off, glancing at the dates on all the filing cabinets. The section they're in currently is dated about ten months prior, so she has a lot of walking to do.

When she reaches the correct section, it's easy enough to find her proof. In one cabinet she finds a newspaper article on the activity of the  royals in the City, including a small paragraph about the Prince's representatives meeting with the City's sixth most important financial advisor. Then, she rifles through a box of letters and finds, to her astonishment, the receipt from having lunch with the representatives. It states the time and the date and how much food was ordered, so Esmé feels it's proof enough. Clutching her proof, she runs back to Georgina, eager to prove her wrong.

“Here,” she calls, turning down the makeshift corridor and causing Georgina to glance up. “I wasn't lying.” She reaches Georgina and hands her the receipt and newspaper.

Georgina peruses them for a short while. “Alright,” she says, “You weren't lying about _that_. What about… Last month, when you went to Moscow for the weekend for a financial seminar. Was that really why you went there?”

Then Esmé's off again, rushing to the proper section to rifle through copies of the _Moscow Tribune_. She finds her proof and brings it back, only for Georgina to bring up another event, another moment, and to prove that one as well. She finds not only newspapers, but police reports, doctor's reports, receipts, train tickets, intimate letters, and many other kinds of documentation that make her shudder to think how Silas got ahold of them all. Georgina continues until she's reached the beginning of their entanglement, and Esmé hardly needs to move to get her proof. She reaches across the aisle and pulls out a drawer, flipping through the documents quickly. “Here we go,” she mutters, scanning a police report quickly. It's a rather messy and unorganized report, but Esmé understands it at once, because she remembers writing it.

“Here, Georgie,” she says, handing it to Georgina. Over the past while, Esmé could feel Georgina's suspicions ebbing away, and the nickname returned; hesitantly at first, but then in full force. _Darling_ , however, Esmé still can't bring herself to say. “The report I wrote in the Village of Fowl Devotees, as Officer Luciana. God knows how they got it.”

Georgina reads it carefully, and Esmé can see something of a smirk threatening to slip through her stony expression. “I've read many police reports, but this one is probably the most entertaining.”

“Does it answer your question?” Esmé asks.

“It does.” Georgina sets it on the ground, then turns to face her. Now, Esmé can plainly see her smile poking out, like the sun coming out to brighten a dark sky. Before she can speak, Esmé takes her hand and scrambles onto her knees so they're eye level.

“Georgie, I haven't been lying to you — except this time. I lied to you because I'm thoughtless and stupid and terrified to be without you. And I regret it and hate myself for it because I put you in danger and hurt you and betrayed your trust when I knew how much you value trust and honesty. You have a right to be angry, and you're justified even if you never truly forgive me. But I deeply, sincerely regret it, because–” and that's where she stops. She flounders for a moment, her lips moving in the shape of the words, but her voice seems to be gone. There's something in Georgina's face, something almost like a challenge. _Say it,_ her quirked eyebrows tell Esmé, the same way she'd say _do it_ , or _go on_ or _yes please_ , and she knows she has to. Georgina's encouragement always makes her resolve stiffen. “Because I love you.”

The next few moments go in slow motion. Georgina's eyes widen, shining with tears between rapid blinks. Then she's moving and her lips are against Esmé's in a joyful, passionate, desperate kiss. Something happens right then — not the corny sparks often described at great length in romance novels, but something. A connection, a sudden understanding, a reaching out only to find the other is reaching out too. Tears spring to Esmé's eyes, and for the first time in a long while, she lets them fall from her eyes onto her cheeks.

Esmé has never been romantic or sentimental, and she certainly never expected to say the three little words to someone with compete and utter sincerety. But Georgina has always made her think differently, made her adapt and approach things from a new angle; it's one of her many talents. She knows now she's been falling since the day they met, and didn't notice until she hit the ground. Until that moment, she didn't know if she had it in her — but just speaking those words made everything crystal clear. Esmé knows Georgina is everything she wants and needs (Georgina's fingers in her hair, her other hand on Esmé's hip, her hot breath and only slightly chapped lips) and she'll do anything for the gorgeous, cunning, lethal woman she _loves_.

Georgina pulls away. “I love you too,” she murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “I accept your apology, and I will forgive you — if we get out of here.”

Esmé laughs softly. “We will, darling. This library has everything we need to prove our innocence.”

“Then let's get started,” replies Georgina.

Esmé holds out a hand, and Georgina takes it. They stand, and together they walk through the cabinets to the more recent sections.

* * *

“It's not enough,” says Georgina.

Esmé looks at her, surprised. “We have so much documentation here, darling.” She gestures at the crate they're using to organize their proof, which is nearly full. “This should be enough.”

Georgina and Esmé have been gathering proof for what feels like days. Their captors have left and come back a few times, and they've gotten two more meals. They've been taking turns napping, but neither of them have gotten enough sleep to be able to tell how much time has really passed. However, Georgina's pretty sure their two days are almost up.

Georgina begins to pace around the crate of proof, restless. “All we've done is prove our side of the story.” She glances at Esmé, who looks utterly confused.

“And that's what we're supposed to do,” says Esmé.

“Yes, but–” Georgina breaks off, trying to find the words. She knows she's going somewhere with this, but her exhaustion is getting in the way. “Listen,” she starts, then closes her eyes for a moment, casting around for what she's trying to articulate. “We have the receipt for your brunch with Prince Zařízení. We have a letter that mentions the Prince's limo driver taking him to the wrong destination that day. We have the order for a new pair of shoes for John Hebron. We have the proof that all of these things happened, but they already know that. Our innocence doesn't lie in our actions, it lies in Fergus Green's blackmail. And we don't have any proof that conclusively ties him to all this.” She pauses again for a moment. “To convince them he's really behind all this, they need his motive. Why would he blackmail you into doing this?”

Esmé bites her lip. “Damn it. I don't know. I haven't had contact with him for years.”

“Tell me what you know about him,” Georgina asks.

“Well,” Esmé says, “he was the City's third most important financial advisor before he went into politics. He held that spot for a good twenty five years. He's from old money, and so very pretentious about it. Back when I first started out, he helped me climb the financial advisor ladder in some pretty underhand ways. He's been in politics for a couple years now, and he won the election before last for Financial District representative. Last election he got voted out, though. But I can't think of a good reason why he'd want Munro dead and Hebron framed for his murder. Maybe he had some personal grudge against them.”

Georgina tries to think. She wants to get out of here so badly — no, she _needs_ to get out of here. She wants to be back at her cozy house or in Esmé's familiar penthouse, drinking something strong and eating something delicious, with the knowledge of having good sex and a good sleep later in the evening. And now she's thinking of everything she misses, and she's getting sidetracked, but it feels so much _better_ to–

“Georgie?”

“Right.” Georgina clears her throat. She sighs, then something occurs to her, and it's so obvious it hits her like a slap in the face. “It has to do with this!”

“What?” Esmé asks, still a step behind.

“Isn't it obvious?” Georgina says excitedly, because it's all making sense now. “Munro is part of this–” she waves her hand at their surroundings– “mafia, or mob or gang or whatever. It must be something to do with this.”

Esmé's eyebrows — usually perfectly penciled but now smudged and messy — shoot up. “You know, darling, when I mentioned the name John Hebron to Silas, he seemed to recognize it.”

“So Green wanted Silas to be angry at this John Hebron for killing Munro,” Georgina reasons. “They would probably do something to him like they're doing to us.”

“But,” says Esmé, and now she's excited too, “Hebron would be angry too, because he didn't do it and he'd have no idea what was going on. Darling, I think I got it.”

“Yeah?” Georgina says, catching on.

“Hebron's a rival! He's part of a rival mafia, or mob or gang or whatever, and Fergus wants to pit them against each other!”

“But why?” Georgina muses.

“It must be something to do with his campaign. He used to pit people against each other so often back in his finance days,” Esmé informs her.

“He probably wants something to fix,” Georgina realizes. “Create a mob war, then step in as the hero to fix it all, and get elected. Holy shit.”

“Holy shit!” Esmé echoes, then grabs both her hands. “It all makes so much sense!” She flashes Georgina a grin, which Georgina returns.

“We need proof,” Georgina says, “and fast.” Her excitement begins to fall away, stress filling the place it's leaving.

“How do we prove it?” asks Esmé. She bites her lip yet again — something she always does when she thinks.

“We need to prove he has a history of pitting people against each other,” Georgina says firmly. “We need to prove he badly wants to win this election. We need to prove he's the type of person to do this.”

Esmé nods, her features set in determination. “Let's split up, darling. I'll look for things that prove he likes to pit people against each other, you look for proof he wants to win this election.”

“Right,” says Georgina, and turns away to start looking.

She walks to the more recent sections and begins rifling through a filing cabinet of newspapers, not exactly sure what she's looking for. A few filing cabinets later she finds a small article about Green announcing he's running again, and scans it quickly.

_Green suffered a bitter loss four years ago,_ the article says, _where the vote was split 52% to 48% in Cunningham's favour. Green has said of the loss, “I am bitterly disappointed that the public feels I haven't represented the Financial District well enough these past years. I plan to run again, and next time I will do everything in my power to ensure the Financial District is represented well.” By all accounts he took the loss badly: friends and family reported low moods and bursts of anger in the period that followed the election. However, he has returned with such a vigour that we can assume he channeled all his frustration into motivation for this election._

Georgina pockets it.

It then occurs to her she might find some correspondence of Green's here, and glances around for a crate of letters. She flips through the top crate on a stack of them, but finds nothing. She places the crate on the ground (with considerably more grunting than she'd like to admit) and searches through the next one. Still finding nothing, she places that one on the ground as well, and continues in this manner. She doesn't end up finding any correspondence of Green's, but she does find a telegram from Green's rival, Jack Cunningham, mentioning how he thinks Green is a liar and a cheater. She pockets that as well.

“Georgie!” she hears, and looks up to see Esmé hurrying towards her. She's clutching a small stack of letters and reciepts. “I just thought of something that'll put the nail in the coffin!”

“What is it?” Georgina asks, curious and hopeful.

“I have an idea,” Esmé says. “Come on.” She takes Georgina's arm, and leads her to where their captors are guarding the door.

“What are you doing?” Georgina hisses.

“I'm going to ask for a phone call,” Esmé whispers back, then clears her throat and calls, “hey!”

Their captors look up from a card game. Weasel looks annoyed, while the other simply looks startled.

“Us being here is kind of like being in jail while awaiting trial, correct?” she asks. They don't answer, but she plows ahead anyway. “Which makes you two kind of like the police.”

“No, not really,” says Weasel, “we're not like the police. We're much more fair than that.”

“Oh,” says Esmé. Georgina raises an eyebrow.

“We are, however, watching every move you make,” pipes up the other man. He smirks, obviously proud of his joke. Weasel gives him an annoyed look, and he mutters, “What? It's a good song.”

“Well,” Esmé tries again, “if you're more fair than the police, we should get _at least_ one phone call.”

“True,” says Weasel, getting to his feet. “I'll get you a phone.”

“Oh no,” Esmé says, holding up a hand. “I want my phone call during the trial.”

“What?” Weasel and Georgina say simultaneously, though Georgina's is more of a whisper.

“Trust me, darling,” Esmé whispers back, and Georgina hesitantly, reluctantly does.

“Well, alright,” Weasel says, squinting at them suspiciously. The two of them go back to their card game.

Esmé turns to Georgina. “Have you got proof Fergus desperately wants this election?” she asks urgently.

“Yes,” Georgina replies, bewildered.

“Then let's go to trial.”

* * *

Esmé watches Silas peruse the last piece of evidence they presented him. The trial is quite an informal one; Silas simply said, “let's see this proof,” and started reading. Occasionally he asked for an explanation, but the trial has mostly been passing in silence.

Esmé shifts on the couch; they're in the same room she met with Silas in to tell him her story. Judging from the window, it's around midday. This time, the television is playing a cooking show, but once again the sound is off. Georgina's sitting beside her, squeezing Esmé's hand anxiously.

When their captors — who are standing off to the side, watching with mild interest — left the library to notify Silas they were ready for the trial, she hurriedly explained her plan to Georgina. Georgina said she liked it, but Esmé can tell she's worried something will go wrong.

Silas puts the letter down. “Well, that was certainly a lot of reading on my part. It must have been lots of research on your part.”

“It was,” Georgina mutters beside her.

Esmé frees her hand from Georgina's grip, then stands. “Before you make a decision, I have a final piece of evidence I'd like to present.”

“Oh?” Silas leans back in his armchair. “Let's see it.”

Esmé walks over to a side table, upon which sits a shiny black telephone. “Not see,” she says, “hear.”

Georgina's smiling now, for the first time since the trial began, and Esmé gets a burst of confidence. “You see,” she continues, “Fergus told me to call him once I killed Munro. And I just bet that's because he knew he'd be much too busy with his campaign to read the newspaper and find out for himself that I succeeded. So–” she begins dialling– “I'm going to call him and tell him I've succeeded.” She lifts the reciever to her ear, hearing the trilling on the other end.

There's a click. “Hello?” Fergus’ voice is loud, authoritative. Easy for Silas to hear.

“Hello, Fergus. It's Esmé.”

There's a pause. Esmé thinks he's probably moving to a more private location.

“Ah, hello,” he says after a bit.

“I've done it.”

“How?” He sounds morbidly eager. Esmé sees Silas’ face go red out of the corner of her eye.

“Gunshot to the chest.”

“Just the one?”

“Yes.”

“Tsk. I would have preferred multiple. Make it more–”

But they never learn what Fergus wants Munro's death to be more of, because Silas snatches the phone from Esmé and begins speaking into it in a low, deadly voice.

“Listen here, you son of a bitch,” Silas spits furiously, “you've chosen the wrong people to fuck with. You're a nasty old fuck with one foot in the grave now, but when we're done with you you're going to have both feet in.” He slams the reciever down.

He turns to Esmé. “You two can go. But if you try to harm any one of us ever again, you're fucking dead.”

“Thank you,” Esmé says quietly, then walks back to Georgina. She takes her hand and they leave the room.

In the dark hallway, they embrace. They kiss for a long time, and Esmé thinks about how lucky she is to have Georgina.

In a few moments, their captors will come out of the room and they'll break apart. They'll be driven to Esmé's penthouse, in a car with tinted windows so they don't know where they've been kept. Esmé will get the Prince's account, despite disappearing for a few days, and she'll become the City's fifth most important financial advisor. They'll be together and happy, and they'll begin to rebuild their trust. And one morning, the paper will report that Fergus Green and his wife have been found hanged in their own home, their deaths ruled a murder-suicide, and Esmé and Georgina will laugh.


End file.
